The Roman Way

Spring 81 AD

 

 

The farm of tribune Marilicus Flacius lay on the gentle slopes to the south of the great city, and even so early in the season, the farmworkers were preparing the fields for the planting of spring wheat. Uwan found it difficult to believe the quality of the soil, so fine and weed-free, so unlike the hard stony earth of home.

Once they had unpacked, he took up daily duties in the house, tutoring the Votadini boys, and slowly he found Gestinius’s eyes following him less and less. Marilicus spoke of an audience with Titus, but it took its time coming. Then one morning, as Uwan took a midday meal in the kitchen, a messenger arrived.

To say the house erupted into bedlam would have been an understatement. Suddenly, Atriana’s voice was one to be considered in control of the household, and Uwan ensured he stood in the doorway as she read the message.

“We must have new clothes, you, my dear husband will have a new toga.”

“Surely not,” Marilicus’s head shook slightly. “Besides, we have no time for such, the audience is less than a week away.”

Atriana virtually shrieked. “I am the daughter of a senator, and there is nothing we do that Titus will not see.” She began to pace in front of him. “I can have new clothes made in days. My new dress will be the palest green, as a tribute to the goddess Venus.”

“My dear,” he crossed and took her shaking hands into his. “We need not make so much of this…”

“What?” she stepped back, “This is your interview for the senate! Don’t you see that? The Emperor will be looking at every crease in your toga.” Her finger waved between them, defying him to cross her. “He will see every hair out of place, he will be listening to every word, every inflection. If you do not make a good impression, we’ll be driven back to that icy hell-hole we just came from. I will not go back, Marilicus!” she now stood trembling. “I won’t!”

The senator’s daughter apparently knew everything about the honor shown to Marilicus. Plans were drawn that included every single facet of their visit, down to the walking order for the trip. It seemed that even the color of trim that Marilicus wore had to be debated and decided on.

On the eve of the trip, Uwan’s slave collar was removed. “Even slaves must look their best,” Gestinius said, supervising the unclasping of the securing device. “There is a new robe by your bedding, Uwan. You will not wear it until the morning of our walk into Rome.”

The caravan started before dawn, quickly making the gates of the city as the sun rose. Rome had already sprawled outside its walls, but even the vast conglomeration of buildings they passed through could not prepare Uwan for the splendor that Rome proved to be. Inside the gates, the buildings suddenly rose five times higher than those outside. Uwan’s head constantly moved, his eyes drawn by greater and greater majesty. Fluted pillars lined large arched doorways, decorative carvings looked down from high above, and red flags, waving in the wind in quiet celebration.

So much stone. There is more marble here than in the rest of the world.

The procession into the city became lined with onlookers sometimes two or three deep, as the name Marilicus got passed ahead of the carriages. The people cheered, although Uwan could see no reason for their jubilation, almost as if they did it out of habit rather than actual emotion. They threw green leaves and red flower petals onto the street before them.

But as they entered the gates of the great city, Uwan began to fester an emotion of his own. Loathing. Yes, their buildings were impressive; they could not fail to be. Some stood three times as high as any tree he’d seen, and they looked to have no joints in the stone, which marveled him more.

But it is built on the back of slavery and conquest.

Large stone carvings of men, animals and naked women lined the road, some vastly larger than their real-life counterparts. They seemed to have life within, their likenesses caught so well by their makers.

Again, for the thousandth time in his voyage, Uwan made comparison to the clan’s life back home, and found his own land primitive in the extreme.

Yet the people look poorer for their lavish lifestyle. They are not inferior in looks, for their long flowing robes are far superior to the clan’s clothing, but their smiles seem false, their whole pallor worn and gray. This is a people whose very souls were in decay, yet they do not know it.

They passed under many arches, the size of which Uwan could not fathom, even looking at the giant structures, he was unsure of how they could have been made by man’s hands alone. Then they entered a vast empty square, where the sunlight reached street level for the first time in some time. The caravan headed directly for a huge building, even dwarfing the others in the square.

The columns which lined the front of Titus’s palace were ten times thicker than any tree, and tapered smoothly to the gigantic lintel, so far above, it was almost out of focus. Lines of Praetorian Guard lined both the steps and the vast doorway, their black and gold vestments glinting in the sunshine.

When they neared the vast steps of their destination, Gestinius flustered the Votadini boys from their horses, and into a line, ready to mount the steps lined with the armored soldiers, their red feathered helmets billowing in the soft breeze.

“I don’t like it.” The oldest said, his lip quivering in fear.

Uwan did nothing to calm his charge; any distraction from his own presence suited him. He allowed the boys to feel their dread, knowing that inside this building stood the pinnacle of his mission. He focused all his defenses, ready to deal with the priests which he assumed would be inside.

Despite the large crowd that had assembled behind them, Marilicus walked the steps in silence, his wife three steps behind. Their sandals clipped loudly in the morning, their feet scuffing on the pristine marble steps.

Suddenly deafening trumpets blasted a tone into the air, followed by others which formed a tune of terrifying sound in the crowded square. Only then did the assembled onlookers cheer, their cries mingling with the piercing sounds of the trumpeters.

“You will stay by the carriages, Uwan.” Gestinius shouted above the clamor.

No, I will accompany the boys in case they are frightened.

Uwan saw the change shift over the slave commander’s face, considering his decision. “No, on second thought, go with them, you might be useful if things do not go to plan.”

“Yes, slave commander.” Uwan slipped onto the end of the line. Soon his feet were walking up the stairs, and into the huge maw of the building, thick marble columns rising on each side of the vast doorway.

Inside, the high ceilings were painted in likenesses of the hills and the fields, with winged creatures and unearthly scenes. On each side, the same thick columns continued, flanked with long flowing red curtains, draped from the ornate corners of the room.

They are the color of blood.

He felt outwards, but encountered no psychical force in the building. Searching farther, he encountered no spirit at all.

It is a desert. There is no life here.

Distant trumpets outside still blared their strange tunes, and crowd cheered, but inside the immense corridor, the sound was deadened considerably, their footfalls making more noise.

“It’s huge,” the boys heads looked in all directions. Uwan tried to force his wonderment aside, keeping a sharp lookout for the priesthood which he thought would surely occupy the building in some way or another.

Through another doorway, the ceilings suddenly lowered, the room filled with diaphanous curtains of the finest silk which rippled in a breeze which Uwan could not detect.

In front of the column, on a raised dais sat a man in flowing white robes.

Uwan needed no introduction. In front of him sat the Emperor of Rome.

~ ~ ~

The breathless man almost ran into Wesson as he walked through the village. The man threw himself backwards with such force, he tripped and fell.

“What’s the matter?” Wesson stood over him, his tone challenging.

The man shook his head. “I am Char from the village o’ Plano. The Scotti have landed on the beaches.”

It had been years since the men from the west had raided, Neal had allowed the warning beacons to go unmanned, and Wesson silently cursed himself for his lack of preparation. “How many?”

“Too many to count,” the man sat up, then stood. “Far too many to count.”

“Come on man, how many ships then?”

The man looked around the clansmen gathering to hear the news. “That’s what I’m talking about. There’s too many ships to count.”

Wesson took a moment to consider the news, then noticed a dhruid approaching. He stopped by the messenger. “Do I have permission to speak?”

“Yes, of course, ancient one.” Wesson felt embarrassed by the man having to ask.

“The ships are from our allies in Dalreida.”

“The Irishmen?” Wesson squinted at the dhruid. “It’s been a long time since we were friendly towards the men from Dalreida.” He almost baulked at the idea of their longtime foes being allies.

“It is arranged, Wesson, son of Tirabar. The Dalreida men will rise against the Romans with us.”

“How many men have landed?”

“The dhruids of Dalreida have sent a hundred ships. Nearly ten thousand men.”

Wesson added his own numbers. “That might be enough.”

The middle aged dhruid kept his gaze on Wesson. “The Damonii will also rise.”

“We can’t trust that load o’ shite!” Wesson bawled, then remembered the reverence given to the dhruid caste. “Your pardon, ancient one,”

The dhruid bowed slightly in deference to Wesson’s rank. “The men from Dalreida will be led by their arch-dhruid, Granshy. Please do not let your temper boil in his presence; he is far less lenient than I.”

So for the first time in many generations, the men from Dalreida and the men from the Novanti joined together in feast, wishing each other fortitude and prowess on the battlefield against the Roman legions.

~ ~ ~

Sewell broke the dried willow bark into small pieces and placed them carefully onto the fire. Each dhruid leaned over the fire to inhale the new smoky aroma.

“Keep Calach in your minds.” Sewell said, “He must be made to contract his forces for a while. The noisy bird gets the arrow.”

“The noisy bird gets the arrow.” The five bowed heads repeated.

“He must concentrate on getting stronger.” Sewell said in a quietly sonorous voice. “The eagle must tend to his nest.”

“The eagle must tend to his nest.” They toned.

For a while Sewell prayed in silence, then as the first light of dawn crept over the green and purple hills, he stood, stretching his back, the muscles protesting their use.

“We retreat to the hills tonight, before long Uwan will need our help.”

~ ~ ~

Calach woke in a cold sweat, his thin spring blanket soaking. Next to him, her eyes open in surprise, lay Kat’lana. “What disturbs you?”

“A dream,” Calach managed, wiping the drops of perspiration from his forehead. “But I’m thinking it was no natural dream.” He quickly got out of bed and pulled on his trews. “I must talk to Sewell before I forget any of it.”

“Tell me first,” she said, pulling him back to sit on the bed. “Telling me will keep the ideas clearer in your head.”

He wasted no time. “A white bear visited me, slashing at my door stopping me from leaving the broch. It sat by the door, just waiting. Then the Romans attacked, and the rest of the village ran out to fight them.” By this time, his labored breathing had settled. “But the white bear still wouldn’t let me out. I looked to Finlass, who, surprisingly lived with us, Mauchty too. That was the way of the dream.” He shook his head, trying to clear the confusion.

“Sometimes things are different in the dream world.” Kat’lana soothed. Not for the first time, she wished Winnie lived in Caledonii lands, sometimes she felt so overwhelmed by Calach’s moods.

“The white bear tried to stop all of us getting out of the broch. We were trapped, and there was nothing we could do.”

He paused. “Is that all?” she asked.

“I think so. But the village didn’t look like Lochery or Bar’ton.” He shook his head in confusion. “I didn’t recognize it at all. The people too; they were strangers.”

“Sewell will make sense of it all.”

Calach stood and left the broch, shivering in the cold nip of early morning. He made his way to the dhruid’s quarters, a ring of three high wooden huts on the north side of the village. To his surprise, the dhruids were already busy around their central fire. Calach recognized Sewell’s robe, slightly darker than most of the mid-gray.

“Excuse me wise one, I need counsel.”

The dhruid looked up, then as he approached, he watched Calach’s eyes carefully. “You have had a vision.”

“It was a dream.” Calach said, mildly annoyed that Sewell seemed to be always one step ahead of him.

“Dream, vision, the difference is slight, and for dhruids to contemplate, not you.” He placed his hand on Calach’s shoulder and smiled. “Tell me of your dream.”

Once Calach had finished, Sewell spent a moment in silence. “I know of what you speak.”

“You do?”

Sewell nodded. “I believe it was a message from your brother, Uwan.”

Calach’s face suddenly became more serious. “Is he in danger?”

“Not particularly. He is far from here, however, and some of his machinations are coming to bear on our world.”

“The dream?”

Again, Sewell paused, as if choosing his words very carefully. “Uwan is the albino bear.” Calach looked quite shocked. “He chose the animal after his trials. I have seen him in my own visions, it is an imposing beast.”

“Ferocious,” Calach admitted. “It’s difficult to think o’ my wee brother as such.”

“Nevertheless, he has chosen to speak to you. The white bear kept you inside your broch, as this strange village fought the Romans.”

“He wouldn’t let me out, Mauchty or Finlass neither.”

Sewell closed his eyes, remembering the dhruid’s plans. “There will be a battle in the lowlands.” Sewell said, raising his hand to keep Calach’s questions at bay. “Neither you nor Finlass and Mauchty are to participate.”

“But if we lend our forces to the fray, we may make the difference.” He said excitedly.

But Sewell shook his head. “You must continue to prepare your forces, continue to make weapons. Because of this battle, more men will move north past the wall. Your forces will increase.”

Sewell looked at Calach carefully, the young man looked as if he intended instant flight.

“Calach, you must heed the message, it is important.” He kept his hand on the young man’s shoulder, as if he needed to physically restrain him. “The Novants and Damonii will rise.”

“They are not enough.” Calach said firmly.

“They will not be alone.” Sewell said.

Calach flinched. “Who is left to fight if we stand back?”

“The men from Dalreida have already landed.”

“Never,”

“Yet I have said it,” Sewell smiled. “You are not alone in your plots, Calach, son of Ranald. The Irishmen have been promised land from the Selgovae in return for their swords this summer.”

“Then perhaps we can harry the wall, when Roman attention is elsewhere.” He grinned.

“There will be no harrying of walls, Calach, please. Your brother’s message is clear. The Roman nerves on the wall will be alert, they will not be distracted. If anything they will be more vigilant, expecting you to attack.”

Calach stood for a while, just looking at Sewell’s face. “Three tribes against the Romans?”

“The plans are already made.”

“I’d love to be a bird, looking down.”

“Oh, there are a few of us with that wish.” He grinned, as if sharing a joke. “Send messengers to Finlass and Mauchty, withdraw your raids until the summer is done. Your turn will come soon enough.”

~ ~ ~

Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, the leader of the largest empire the world had ever seen was a middle-aged man with a slightly lazy paunch. His shoulders looked as if they had once been strong, but he lay back on the chair, his attention lazy and indolent. He looked upon the delegation with bored and lethargic eyes.

Marilicus stood nervously, but Uwan saw the emperor’s delay as a tactic, a means to unsettle the delegation, and it seemed to be working.

“What news of the Island’s conquest?” he eventually asked, his attention seemingly torn between the grapes at his front and the floor. Then he looked up, and the gaze cut into Marilicus. “Are you here to announce that you have driven the scum into the sea as I ordered?”

Marilicus, usually so aloof looked lost for words. “My Emperor, Governor Agricola has swept the vermin from the south of the northern part of the island, and built a wall across the narrowest part.”

“A wall?” suddenly Titus’s face filled with emotion, his teeth showing behind bared lips. “Did I ask him to build a wall?”

Marilicus shook his head. “No, my Emperor, the defensive wall…”

“I will hear no more mentions of a wall!” he roared, “Rats hide behind walls. Brave Roman soldiers do not!” Titus rose to his feet in a flash, “I will hear nothing of this wall!” he swept to the edge of the dais, but did not step down. “You disappoint me, Tribune, your family will suffer for this.”

Uwan tried to mollify the Emperor’s rage, and sensing no spiritual attack behind his words, spoke directly to the man in glowing white.

Marilicus has done nothing wrong, there is no need to punish him.

Instantly Titus looked around, his face now revealing traces of fear. “Who said that?” he muttered. Uwan rebuked himself for being so direct; this man was obviously not as stable as he had first surmised.

Calm down.

This time he soothed from the edges, rather than rushing into the man’s head, providing a distraction.

Look at the boys.

“Who are these?” he stepped to one side, and thrust his hand at the Votadini boys, now openly trembling.

“They are the sons of a southern chief, my Emperor.” Marilicus stood to one side, still noticeably recovering from his earlier lambasting. “They come to pay homage to their benefactor, their father alone in the southern tribes did not resist our forces.” One by one the boys knelt on one knee, bowing their heads low. “They have been learning Latin for some weeks now.”

“Do you speak their language?” Titus asked, his head snapping in Marilicus’s direction.

“No, my Emperor…”

“Make them talk in their native tongue.”

Marilicus looked at the boys, then at Uwan, then back to the boys. “Speak.”

Egred, the eldest, looked at the Roman Tribune, but it seemed words would not come, his mouth opening, his jaw slack.

“Say something.” Uwan hissed forward, and found Egred looking back at him, his eyes full of fear. “Tell him you’re happy to be here or something. Anything! He won’t know the difference.”

For the first time since they’d met, Egred nodded his thanks, then turned to the Emperor who had been watching the exchange with considerable interest.

Egred stepped forward. “Emperor Titus, my name’s Egred, we are the sons o’ Pe’weric, the chief o’ the Votadin clan.” Egred glanced back at Uwan, who nodded his approval. “We’re happy to be here, an’ look forward to many days in this great city.” He bowed his head slightly, signifying the end of his speech.

Titus looked at Egred for a moment, his eyes quizzical and challenging, then he grinned and shook his head. “It’s just slurred gibberish.” He looked openly disgusted. The dignitaries who stood behind the throne mirrored their emperor’s expression.

“Yes, my Emperor,” Marilicus said, waving Egred back with a condescendingly false smile. “We have great difficulty in communication with the natives of the north.”

Uwan found himself in the gaze of the Emperor, and lowered his gaze. “Yet he seems to have no such problem.” Titus pointed directly at Uwan.

“A new acquisition in Caledonia, my Emperor. This slave was recently bought to teach the boys some Latin.”

“He holds his head high for a slave.” Titus moved forward, stepping down the marble steps towards Uwan.

Carefully Uwan allowed the slightest wave of thought to waft between them.

You are interested in me. I might be important in some way.

“Does he speak our tongue?”

“Quite well, my Emperor.”

Titus narrowed his eyes. “Speak slave!”

“On which subject would you like me to speak, my Emperor?” Uwan said in perfectly inflected Latin. He kept his voice low and empty of authority.

“Oh, I will have fun with this one.” Titus said, walking back up the steps to his large stone throne. “May I borrow him?”

Marilicus looked at Uwan, flashing a genuine smile, his first since entering Titus’s presence. “Take him, my Emperor, he is my gift to you.” He looked genuinely pleased to have the attention taken from the matters in Caledonia.

Titus turned and sat down, and made a sweeping movement with his hand, dismissing the party from the palace without another word. Two guards approached Uwan, and taking him lightly by the elbows, led him away.

~ ~ ~

The rebellion in the south began with the slaughter of the small Roman detachments placed near the small towns. The clansmen, so soon already weary of their Roman neighbors, fell upon them in their hundreds. Few survived the initial onslaught, even fewer escaped from the now enemy lands of the ‘flatland’ clans.

The warriors of the southwest, swollen in number by the men of Dalreida, now emboldened by their small victories, took to their war chariots and headed east across the lowland moors.

There was no major encounter, no pitched battle, but the rebellion of 81AD proved costly to both Agricola’s forces and his plans for further expansion north.

Two legions marched into the small enclave, only to find the villages empty, the fields deserted. With their knowledge of the terrain the three separate armies avoided a head to head meeting, and attacked the Roman marching columns from the flanks.

In the first moons of summer Agricola was forced to recall the legions to the center of the region to regroup. With the words of his emperor constantly in his mind, he now felt under extreme pressure to finish his task, chase the painted men into the sea.

With three distinct armies at his front, each mobile and independent, he knew it would take time to deal with the rebellion. Time he did not have.

~ ~ ~

It took Uwan only days to find that Titus alone was responsible for the push into the Norlands, he had said so many times, almost basking in the knowledge, teasing Uwan with it.

“Push them to the sea,” Titus said, and not for the first time, his mind seemingly bent on the task. “That’s what I ordered Agricola.”

As the emperor divulged his plan, Uwan thought of the dhruid directive, then wondered if the Norlands people would be best served in a different manner. He meditated most evenings, and tried to communicate with the dhruids back home, but his attempts were met with stony silence. Originally the counsel of the highest dhruids had thought to use Uwan to change Titus’s mind, take the legions away, but again, Uwan strove for a better more permanent solution, he had no intention of staying in Rome until he died, being a puppet master over the ever erratic leaders.

As the emperor became increasingly excited at the opening of a new series of games in his new amphitheater, Uwan listened to every errant thought in the palace. From his seemingly stable position, the machinations behind Titus’s back provided a different side of the story. Having less than two years in power, Titus had seen the completion of the amphitheater as a publicity exercise, and filled the first one hundred days with entertainment so lavish that it had almost bankrupted him. He used the games as a strengthening of his popularity, and it had worked.

Uwan began to focus some of his attention on Titus’s younger brother, Domitian, and it was in passing one day that he overheard his voice in conversation.

“My brother has promised me before, Heronus, and naught has come of it.” Uwan, heading along a corridor, slowed as he neared the two figures. One was definitely Domitian, Titus’s younger brother, the other he did not recognize.

“You must be patient.”

“How can I have patience? I have done nothing but his bidding. I re-build Pompeii for two years, I re-build in Rome after the fire last year, and yet no seat on the Senate is forthcoming. I have overseen his Flavian Amphitheatre, ready for his bloody games, yet he treats me like a child.”

In the moons approaching summer, Uwan had met Domitian many times before, but the two brothers’ relationship always seemed to be amicable. This was the first time he had witnessed any displeasure. He gently asked a question.

What do you think of Titus’s obsession with the Caledonii?

Uwan paused in the corridor, slipping between two very convenient pillars. The message he’d sent had been as neutral as he could manage.

“And his obsession with the north of Britain has now ensnared two legions.” Domitian snarled. “And for what gain?”

“None, my friend,”

“With the third legion in the south, we have three of the best armies in the Empire doing nothing but chasing sheep in an already fenced field. What has Agricola found in those barbaric lands to warrant my Brother’s attention?”

“There were rumors of gold, remember?” Heronus answered.

“And what have we to see for it?” Domitian surged. Uwan could feel the passion in his words; this man had far more spiritual authority than his elder brother. “Nothing. If I had the power, I would strip Britannia of two legions, and pursue our interests against the Chatti in Gaul, they are much more in need of our attention.”

An excellent plan, you must examine it more.

With those words, Uwan set a new plan in motion. In the summer moons, as the Romans reveled each day in the games of the new Amphitheatre, he wandered unnoticed through the palace of Titus. Each time he passed a member of the Praetorian Guard, he passed them a suggestion.

Domitian would be a far more worthy Emperor than Titus.

The games lasted for one hundred days, and Titus and a changing retinue attended faithfully each day.

Although Uwan could have engineered a reason to be allowed to attend, he felt enough suffering in the air to intentionally miss any such appearance, content to listen to the myriad of tales brought back into the palace. Hundreds of men chained from all corners of the empire, fought for their lives each day. A huge variety of animals and reptiles by the thousand, all died for Titus and his people. When the floor of the amphitheater was washed each night, there were tales of rivers of blood and body parts.

As the days of summer rolled onwards, Uwan worked incessantly, slowly bringing each section of the guard under his influence.

When the games finally ended, Titus raised his household and declared he was going to travel. The next day was bedlam as a caravan was organized, and clothes and possessions were loaded. Of course, Uwan suggested that he be allowed to travel with the Emperor, and met little resistance from the man.

Many dignitaries travelled with him, a few senators, and a huge host of followers, it was easy for Uwan to walk close to Titus’s carriage, his mind working a sickness in the emperor. He wove between the soldiers of the Praetorian Guard with ease, his presence now usual around the emperor.

You feel nauseous.

By the end of the first day from Rome, Titus had ceased waving to the crowds, and retreated inside the carriage, his face pale and frowning.

At the first way-station, he refused to eat, retiring to sleep.

It came as no surprise when cries suddenly cut through the night.

“The Emperor is sick!” the call came from Titus’s bedchamber. Slaves flustered and waved their arms in panic.

“Send for the physicians!” Uwan called, then heard his command echoed down many corridors.

You feel your stomach constrict.

Uwan had little time to finish the job, but his plans included Domitian, and had to wait for the Emperor’s brother to arrive. To the dhruid’s chagrin, Domitian looked genuinely fearful for Titus. He sent another command to the struggling form on the bed, and Titus moaned louder, clutching his belly.

The physicians arrived in a group, mostly looking bemused, but also unwilling to suggest anything constructive. This suited Uwan’s purpose.

Your lungs find it difficult to inhale.

Titus gasped, his hands straying to his throat.

“Perhaps it is food poisoning?” the lead physician offered.

Domitian, go to the guard. You will be safe there.

“I cannot watch this.” Domitian said, tears running down his face. He rose and left, his white robes rippling in his wake.

As the morning sun rose, Titus breathed his last.

And as Uwan watched from a far balcony, he witnessed Domitian being saluted by the guard as the next Emperor.

Reduce the legions in Britannia. Drive the Chatti to the sea. The Chatti are the greatest threat to the Empire.

Uwan slipped out from the house and began to walk north. The road was dusty, but his eyes looked further than the vineyards on the distant hills. Already he could see the purple heather of his homeland, and relished the feeling of returning to Lochery.

~ ~ ~

Wesson crouched in the bracken, the long green ferns easily hiding himself and his men. The Roman patrol on the beaten track in front of them looked tempting, but he resisted the call to charge. His mission was now single-minded: get his men safely over the river to Calach’s country.

It seemed to take ages for the patrol to pass, but soon they were out of sight, the river just a short run away. “We have to go, chief.” Anders said from Wesson’s shoulder. “This is a busy section; there’ll be another patrol along soon.”

“We wait,” Wesson’s tone tolerated no opposition. He had almost decided to rise, when he noticed a glint in the grass on the other side of the wagon-rutted track. “Everyone be still!” he hissed. “We have company.”

Slowly, a figure moved out of the long grass, his heavy leather tunic blending well with the dark shadows of the trees. One man became two, then soon, a large group of archers slipped from the trees, ran quickly along the track, then off again, into the woodland.

“I counted forty,” Anders said. “We could have taken them.”

Wesson whipped round on his second in command, the post so often changed in the last few moons. “Have you learned nothing?” he snapped. “They’re getting clever, these scum. They would have chased us into the water; we’d have been cut down for sure. I want to get to Calach without another man lost.”

At Wesson’s bidding, his group of two hundred warriors, men and women, had stripped down to the essentials for the trek north; a knife in their belts, their primary weapon, and a bag of food slung over their shoulders. No archers were left, just the last of the Damonii, the only ones to survive the rebellion.

Just two moons ago, at the height of summer, the Novants had surrendered to a large Roman force, their cries lingering into the night. Having fought for four moons, the Irishmen slunk back to their ships, returning to Dalreida. By the time the apples had begun to ripen on the trees, the Damonii were the only clan fighting. And they had fought well. Thousands of Romans lay dead in the hills of the western men.

But now, his thoughts were only to the survival of the remnants of his army.

“We go!” Wesson rose from the ferns and began the last walk to the river. It was far too deep to wade, and as Wesson slowly sank into the cold salty water, he gave thanks to be leaving the lowlands, the land so long fought for.

“I will return.” He panted as he began to swim. “I will avenge my people.”

He had hardly reached halfway over when fatigue set in, his arms tired, his stroke failing. Then he noticed a lone figure on the bank ahead. At first he thought of ambush, then, treading water, he cleared his eyes. A dhruid.

You will all make it over safely.

Wesson sighed in relief, resuming his stroke, his arms feeling immediately stronger. Soon he felt rocks touching his feet, and rose out of the water. The dhruid’s head was bowed, his hood covering most of his face, and therefore by tradition unapproachable. Wesson turned back to the river, seeing two hundred bobbing heads.

“Come on!” he roared, waving his soaking arms in encouragement. As his warriors arrived on the bank, he embraced every one, pushing them behind him, up out of the water. Then, as the last one straggled ashore, he turned to thank the dhruid for his help to find the figure gone. He ran up the bank, looking to left and right, but apart from his own warriors, the bank was deserted.

“Thanks be to Lugh!” he said. “Up into the trees,” He ordered. “Light fires, we get dry, and we rest, for tomorrow we march to join Calach.”

A low, tired cheer answered his command.

As he followed his men into the wood, he wondered how many other groups had made it this far.

~ ~ ~

The winter in the land of the Caledonii people that year was cold and wild. Winds blew from the north bringing snow in abundance. At the first hint of bad weather Calach had pulled his sentries back to their homes; there was no need to patrol when the enemy could not move his troops, spring would have to arrive before the Romans could march. Calach himself had hardly arrived in Lochery before the snows closed them in totally.

A new settlement to the north of the town had begun over the years, but it now had swollen to triple the size, including many warriors from the Damonii clan, and Wesson himself.

The snow brought hardship, but with preparation from the harvest the year before, the men did not starve.

There seemed to be an air of foreboding amongst the leaders, all knew that there was nothing left south of the wall. Everyone knew that the Romans would strike in the spring of the year. The leaders talked of nothing else.

“We must drill the men,” Calach said to the crowded room. Leaders from all the contingents sat around the fire in Ranald’s broch, their warm winter furs discarded behind them. “The Romans have moves they practice, an’ we must be the same.”

“We already know how to fight.” Wesson said.

“Yes, I know, but we’re going to have to adopt new ideas.” Calach persisted, and was pleased with the amount of nodding heads in the room. “Taking the rams with us gives us a way to break through the shield wall.”

The new weapon was a short tree trunk, twice the height of a man, with grips carved on each side. An impressive ram against men or the flimsy walls the Romans erected at their campsites. The Roman shield wall could easily be broken with chariots, but now with the new ram the tribesmen could break into their ranks too.

Ranald shook his head. “I think you’re making these Romans out to be more than they are.” He had joined their meetings more and more, although his questioning of their strategies sometimes tested Calach’s patience.

“If we overestimate our foes, we’ll do better on the battlefield.” Calach said, and Ranald sat back against the wall, his sneer hidden by the jug of ale at his mouth.

With its harshness, the snows of winter brought a respite for Calach and his men. It was a time of survival and little else. Nature performed its own culling within the land, taking the elderly and infirm, those who had not prepared well.

After the celebrations of the shortest day, and the re-lighting of the New Year fires on the longest night, Calach made the men rehearse tactics against shield walls, they now had enough Roman shields for the purpose. He watched from the defensive wall, barking orders, then strode amongst the men, correcting and explaining his changes. He drilled them in groups of twenty, and he drilled them in full battle order, thousands of men charging the now bent and battered shields.

Spring came early, and despite the land retaining the moisture of winter, its soil sticky and cloying, he resumed his watch on the Roman wall.

In the land of the Venicone, at Calach’s bidding Mauchty had watches at every headland, looking over the sea to the conquered land of the Votadini. But the furry buds had hardly emerged on the willow trees when the Roman sails were spotted, their dark shadows spreading like flies over rotting meat.

~ ~ ~

Daymen watched as the flat craft caught in the shallows and the soldiers disembarked, splashing through the surf water towards the beach.

“We defend Venicone lands now.” He spoke to the men at either side, his eyes never leaving the Roman vessel. “We have waited for this moment. We wait a moment more.”

The Romans ran on, upwards onto the beach, their long chainmail suits, belted at the waist, did not seem to hinder their speed. Their green tunics darkened as the water sprayed high.

“Now!” Daymen cried. “For the Venicone! For Mauchty!” He shouted as his fingers loosed the bowstring. He watched as his arrow was joined by many more, spraying from either side of him, concentrated into the narrow group of invaders.

From the Venicones’ position in the sandy dunes and long grass, a hail of missiles flew through the air towards the Romans. Daymen watched as some arrows missed their mark, but some struck hard in the Romans large, oval, curved shields, splintering the wood and metal construction. Arrows were deflected by Roman shields and helmets, dropping harmlessly onto the hard wet sand. A few Romans fell, their bodies dark in the low morning sun.

But as the second hail of arrows fell, Daymen knew that no matter how many had fallen, it was not enough. He seen a lucky arrow embed itself firmly in a chain-mailed breast, and his heart surged for a moment, then more Romans arrived onto the beach, and the shield wall became tighter, covering both bodies and making a canopy over their heads.

Once the formation was tightly knit, the unit of perhaps a hundred men slowly advanced up the beach.

“Keep firing!” Daymen shouted as he loosed another. This time a Roman fell, screaming in pain as his arrow skewered his knee.

Along the wide beach, more Roman ships were landing their contingents of soldiers.

Resisting the panic he felt, Daymen readied himself to fire again, quickly counting the fallen Roman soldiers as best as he could, now secure in their position directly in front. His next arrow hit a helmet, but bounced off, ricocheting high into the air. The Roman fell from the impact, but regained his footing immediately, adjusting his helmet as he stepped forward.

As the Romans regrouped, he counted the bodies on the sand.

Ten.

They had only dropped ten Romans in the first wave, and he had three arrows left.

Not enough!

He had to keep two in his quiver, which was Mauchty’s order, two arrows for use later. He shook his head in disbelief but the evidence was there in his quiver. Nine arrows fired; one kill.

Not enough.

Romans now charged along the beach from either side.

He knocked his last arrow to the bowstring with a plea to Kernos, god of the Underworld.

“Here’s one for Mauchty.” He whispered as he ignored the armored soldiers clambering to the bank and let his arrow loose, arcing high towards the Romans on his right, unprotected by a shield wall. The lead man fell back clutching his chest. Daymen was close enough to see the surprised look on the Roman’s face as he tottered backwards.

“Fall back!” Daymen shouted, first to one side, then the other. “Fall back to the trees!”

He lingered a moment to ensure that the order had been passed to all his men, then joined them, running full pelt towards the sanctuary of the nearby forest. A quick look behind him ensured that they were not being pursued. He glanced to left and right, and saw other groups, all running towards the cover and safety of the woodland.

As he reached the first of the trees, Daymen slowed, both watching the Romans disembark and assuring that he had left no stragglers behind.

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Virres said from his side, his second in the group. Mauchty had assembled them in groups depending on village strength. Every man and woman in Daymen’s group came from the village of Dunbeath, a day’s march inland. Daymen wondered when he would see Dunbeath again.

“Is anybody missing?” He asked, his eyes still watching the Romans land on the beach. Their run to the forest had been slightly uphill, and from the edge of the trees they could see the whole curve of the golden sands, Daymen was transfixed by the sheer number of craft ferrying the men across.

I’ve already lost count, an’ I’m better at counting than anyone here!

“No Daymen, everyone’s here.” Virres replied.

Daymen shook his head. “Look at them, there’s just so many!”

They watched as the Romans formed into tight formations, marching towards them in stages, tight squares of green, red, blue and yellow, their golden emblems held aloft, catching the sunshine.

“Daymen,” Virres shook his shoulder. “It’s time to move.” The older man looked over Daymen’s shoulder. “It’s time to get back to Mauchty wi’ the news.”

“Aye, you’re right!” Daymen shook his head and turned to face the group. To either side of him crouched the twenty warriors of Dunbeath. “Right! Everybody get ready to move!” He began to walk into the woods.

Daymen now set Mauchty’s plan into motion, one man to watch over the Romans, one man riding to Mauchty with the news. He looked into a young man’s eyes. “Farnie, are you ready for this?”

“Aye,”

“Do you remember the plan?”

“Aye, I’ll be careful Daymen, I watch the Romans from a distance, and I always watch my sides and back.”

“Good lad,” Daymen rubbed the youth’s already tousled hair. “Keep your distance, but we need information as to where they’re heading, an’ in what strength. I’ll lead the rest of the village to chief Mauchty.”

“To Kinress?”

“To begin with,” Daymen looked over the boy’s shoulder. “This is more than a scouting mission. This is invasion, what we’ve trained for. See you soon, lad.” He turned away and stepped into a short-gaited trot followed by the rest of the men from Dunbeath, preserving energy, yet quickly putting distance between themselves and the beach.

~ ~ ~

“Look there!” Aysar’s finger pointed out a new column, as the Roman legionaries formed themselves in a large semi-circle in front of the huge wall.

Bruce nodded. “This is no foray! This is on a larger scale.” His voice had broken significantly in the winter and now sounded low most of the time.

Calach was too deep in thought to voice an opinion.

By the Gods, I was right.

He found himself shaking, trembling with emotion. “We ride back to the top of the hill. We’ll watch from there.”

The hole in the wall continued to spew men out onto the unnaturally cleared grassland. As he rode into the trees, and up the steep slope, he used his hunter’s eye but found nothing awry around them.

That afternoon, from the crest of the Great Divide, he watched as thousands of Romans marched out from the wall.

So organized, so precise.

For a fleeting moment, doubt set in, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to subdue the Roman threat. He felt gratitude when Aysar broke the silence. “Ants from an anthill,”

The men around laughed.

Calach felt the mood change. “Aye,”

News of the Roman’s recent activity behind their wall had come to him on his last inspection around his scouts positions. With the curiosity of a wild cat, he had come down to the wall to see. Part of him was glad he had, part of him was very afraid.

Bruce is right. This is more than a foray! This is invasion!

Through his fear, Calach took a perverse pride in what he was witnessing. He had foreseen this moment, and he was lost in the glory of it, rather than be afraid of the consequences of such an action. Directly to his front, huge gates lay open, and through the gap streamed thousands of Roman soldiers.

I knew they wouldn’t remain behind their wall.... it made no sense!

Auxiliaries took up defensive positions in the cleared ground, then advanced towards the tree-line, halting in a long defensive line. After them, Roman Legionaries followed, advancing, following suit, then chariots, hundreds of cavalry, then the wagons, perhaps hundreds of wagons in all. They continued to file out of the gap in the wall until they took up the whole of the cleared area for as far as Calach could see, both east and west.

By Lugh! They’re going to invade us! I knew it!

“Bruce.” Calach spoke without taking his eyes from the scene in front of him.

“Aye?”

“Have you been to Bar’ton?”

“No, sorry Lord Calach.”

“Damn it to Lugh an’ back again!”

Aysar sidled up to him. “What are you thinking?”

“Who’s been to Bar’ton before Aysar? I need a message sending, an’ it’s got to go as fast as ever before.” Calach chewed nervously on his bottom lip. “Finlass has got to be told about this. We need his men here, an’ we need them quickly.”

“Finlass won’t be at Bar’ton Calach. He’ll be to the north, like he told us, the Long Loch, remember?”

I’ve waited for this to happen for years, an’ now it has, I’m dithering like a dolt!

“Aye, so he will.” Calach replied, though his thoughts were elsewhere. “So who knows the Meatae lands to the north then?” He looked around the men, but met only blank stares.”

“Just me Calach,” Aysar replied. “I’m the only one that knows the way.”

“I need you here Aysar. You’re too valuable to waste as a messenger.” Calach whipped his head round to face his friend. “What about Bruce? He’s old enough now.”

“Aye, he’s old enough, but he doesn’t know the way.” Aysar pointed at his own chest. “You know that I’m the only one who knows the way.”

Why didn’t I think of this before? Why didn’t I prepare messengers for this eventuality? Everyone knows the rallying points over here, but not in Meatae lands.

Aysar continued. “You’ve got others that can take my place here, Calach. Let me go. I’ll be back so quick you won’t know I’m away!”

With only a moment’s hesitation, Calach took a talisman from round his neck and handed it to Aysar, a silver boar on a leather thong.

“It’s Ma’damar’s sign...”

“But...”

“I know that Ma’damar’s dead, but it’s a’ I’ve got!” Calach snapped. “Wear this at a’ times. Ride like the very arms o’ Kernos himself were after you. Change horses twice, three times a day. If you have any problems, flash the boar talisman, curse my name and that o’ Finlass. You’ve got to get to Finlass! It’s vital Aysar.”

“Aye, I know it.”

Lost in his own thought for a moment, Calach briefly remembered the crannog, and the young lad taking his horse on his first trip to Bar’ton.

What was the lad called again?

Calach couldn’t remember.

Aysar nudged his friend in the ribs. “If he’s not at the long loch?”

“He will be. Or by that time, he’ll have found you Aysar, instead o’ the other way around.”

“Any specific message?”

Calach smirked, then turned back to his front. “The message is this... If there are no Romans attacking Finlass, I need every man he can spare over here now! Tell him that the Romans are attacking here in force. It doesn’t look like they’re leaving anyone behind. This is war for the men north o’ the wall Aysar. The Norlands have been invaded.” The last words were spat at the Romans forming in front of them.

“Anything else?”

“Aye,” Calach turned his head again. “Are you still here?”

Smiling, he offered his hand to his friend, clasping it tightly.

Aysar got to his feet, and crouching as he ran, made his way quickly back up the grassy slope to the horses.

The war has begun.